


A Necessary Accessory

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [270]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Banter, Bickering, Discussion of Dicks as Accessories, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, a dash of praise kink, and very soft, everyone is very drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “Electric blankets,” Aziraphale sighed.Crowley grunted. “Fermentation.""That doesn’t count. It’s not athing. It’s a--whatcha call, erm...a process. A technique.”“Fine,” Crowley said, “coffee, then. Coffee in mugs. Coffee mugs! Ha! Doesn’t get much more a thing than that.”Aziraphale leaned back on his elbows and beamed up at the night sky. “Coffee mugs, yes. They’re delightful.”





	A Necessary Accessory

“Electric blankets,” Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley grunted. “Fermentation."

"That doesn’t count. It’s not a _thing_. It’s a--whatcha call, erm...a process. A technique.”

“Fine,” Crowley said, “coffee, then. Coffee in mugs. Coffee mugs! Ha! Doesn’t get much more a thing than that.”

Aziraphale leaned back on his elbows and beamed up at the night sky. “Coffee mugs, yes. They’re delightful.”

They were, on this fine summer night on a warm patch of earth, smashed out of their gourds. It was a deliberate sort of smashing, though, the kind of drunkenness that’s sought out for a reason, and Crowley and the angel had many. This week, it was something called Sputnik, a shiny flying ball that had the humans all in a ruckus. And God herself was none too pleased, either, a fact that normally would have cheered Crowley’s side but in this particular instance, the business of the Great Beyond, it had not.

And so: they were drunk.

And Aziraphale was stuck on coffee mugs, apparently.

“I especially like,” he said, “the white enamel ones that stay warm when you curl your fingers round them. Those are very pleasant. Even though I don’t really care for coffee, sometimes I’ll order it just so I have something toasty to hold on to after the meal is done.”

Crowley waved his fingers above his face, stretched them out again towards the stars. They were far enough out from the city that the velvet of the void seemed close enough to touch. “That’s profoundly weird, angel,” he said. “Ordering something you don’t want. And very unlike you, might I add. Your turn.”

“My turn--? Oh, my turn!” Aziraphale burbled happily. “Oh, good. Where was I?”

“Electric blankets.”

“Oh, those are lovely.”

“I _know_!” Crowley said. “You just said. Now what’s next?”

“There’s no need to be snippy.”

“I’m not snippy,” Crowley said snippily, “but I am getting bored. And bored and drunk is a bad combination for me. You know that. Remember that night in Beijing? Er, when was that? 1372?”

He felt Az turn towards him, the buttons of his friend’s very silly and seriously unfashionable waistcoat brushing up against his arm. “1327. You dared a man to put his sword through a table. The one at which you were sitting, as I recall. He nearly chopped off your leg.”

“Nearly being the operative word. Meaning, he didn’t, did he? But let’s not tempt fate. Let’s do any and everything we can to keep me away from any and all such scenarios tonight.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said in that infuriatingly reasonable way that he had even when three sheets and a duvet to the wind, “I don’t see any tables about, if that helps. Nor any angry-looking men wielding swords.”

Crowley grumbled. “It’s your turn,” he repeated. “So enlighten me: what comes after electric blankets for you on the list of humanity's greatest hits?”

He heard Az’s tongue hit his teeth. “Hmmm,” his friend said. “Cat litter, I think.”

“What the Heavenly Host,” Crowley tried to say, but what came out was a snort, and then a moment later, one word: “ _Why_?”

“Because. I like birds.”

“You like birds. Ok. I wasn’t aware they frequented cat boxes.”

“What is mean,” Aziraphale said, pronouncing each word over and above, “is that cat boxes make it possible for cats to live with humans inside their houses, if everyone is agreeable. And the more indoor cats--or even indoor/outdoor cats, come to think--there are, then the fewer of the little bird-murdering machines there are menacing the winged population, yes?”

“I mean," Crowley said, because he was very drunk, "yeah. I see your point. But I thought you liked cats?”

“Hmmm? Who says that I don’t?”

“You, apparently. You just labelled them murderers.”

“I can loathe their penchant for killing and still be fond of them, can’t I?”

There is a sort of logic to the mind when it is soaked in spirits, a logic that is not unique to one species. When reindeer eat a certain type of mushroom, for example, or when elephants binge on the Marula tree, or when a human downs too many pints, the order of their thoughts, such as they are, falls into a similar pattern: circular and prone to getting caught on corners and to missing the really important bits of what’s going on around them in favor of esoterica. For example, on this night up in the hills beyond Oxford--a town to which Aziraphale had been dispatched and Crowley chosen to tag along--Crowley was at that very moment fixated on remembering the distance between two stars in the Crab Nebula. He’d been instrumental in marking that out and supervising the final design and he was fond of it, that crab. He hadn’t been back to visit nearly enough. Oh, his mind was well trained enough to follow his conversation with Aziraphale, although his vocabulary was a bit less lofty; e.g., his response to his friend’s question in re: loathing and fondness coexisting was the multi-monosyllabic:

“Huh, sure. Why not?”

But he was at that very moment investing as much intellectual energy wandering through the star charts of his relative youth as he was in listening to the angel and as such had no extra brain-bits to spare on the pleasant weight of Aziraphale’s corporeal form against his, on the way Az had peeled Crowley’s arm from the blanket and tucked himself under it and requisitioned Crowley’s shoulder as a pillow for his head. Crowley noticed these things vaguely, in a how’s-the-weather sort of way, but due to the three bottles of red wine he had emptied himself and the white that he’d finished for Az, this shift in the tectonic plates of the central relationship of his life didn’t get the attention it demanded.

Not right away, that is.

Aziraphale laughed. “Go on, then,” he said, poking Crowley in the chest. “Your turn.”

“Hmph,” Crowley said, the wheels turning. Wheels. Spin. Ah--! “Record players. And the spinny bits that go on them, er--records!”

“What kind of records?”

“All of them! All the circular ones, anyway.”

“Tsk,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, we both know you that when you say ‘records,’ you are referring to only the most foul: rock and roll. You might as well say it. ”

Crowley rolled his eyes. Failed to notice the way his fingers were curling gently against the top of the angel’s arm. “Just because you loathe it doesn’t mean it’s terrible,” he said. “Some might say that you’re in the minority here. Not some. Everyone!”

“Yes, well, I’ve never been especially impressed by the majority’s taste in anything, to be honest. Particularly when said taste is accompanied by such an awful sort of racket.”

“Ugh,” Crowley said, rallying. “Do you know how old you sound when you say something like that? I can hear each and every of your 6,000 years. Besides, aren’t you the one who dragged me to Paris to hear the premiere of _Rite of Spring_? That’s music that started a riot, Az! And you loved every bloody discordant note.”

“It is _not_ discordant,” Aziraphale said hotly. “It’s atonal.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not!” Aziraphale pitched up a bit, glaring, and sent Crowley’s hand tumbling down his back. “And don’t you dare compare your Elvis Presley to Stravinsky! That is, well--that is just--!”

Crowley grinned up into the angel’s face, a bigger star than the others, brighter, closer. “That’s what?”

Az leaned down and lowered his voice, its peevishness fully intact. “That’s _sacrilege_.”

It was in this moment that Crowley suddenly became aware of two things: his physical proximity to the angel and the strange, vaguely uneasy feeling emanating from his pants, one that seemed rather keen to push past the cotton of his y-fronts and invade his trousers.

Oh shit.

It had been an act of vanity that had brought him to this point, vanity and an almost slavish devotion to what Aziraphale liked to called his _aesthetic_ , but what Crowley thought of as, well, His Look. 6,000 years is a long time to trudge about in the same guise, and on Earth as it was in Hell, Crowley was keenly aware of other person’s eyes. He wanted to cut a figure, as the humans had once put it, wanted to be the center of attention when he strolled into a room, and if there was a certain pair of eyes whose attentions he craved, that was as may be. Shorter version, whatever his reasons: Crowley was always intent on looking his best.

Admittedly, some of humanity’s forays into fashion had been at best questionable but that was, in Crowley’s mind, what artful draping and tailoring was for. And now, in the mass production age, he clung stubbornly to the notion of not buying things off the rack; his form, the means of his demonic function, he’d long ago decided, required individualized attention.

The trousers he’d slipped on that morning, then, were new, and as he stood staring at himself in the mirror, it had taken him a moment to figure out why the beautiful, damnable things didn’t seem to fit right. They were too loose in the front bit; they didn’t catch the curves of his ass as much as current fashion allowed. They were, he’d thought with a scowl, not right at all.

And then he’d realized why: he'd forgotten to put on his cock.

This was one consistent drawback of Crowley’s devotion to the personal touch when it came to his clothing: it required, er, a personal touch, and the humans who did said professionally and wholly fabric-centered touching expected to if not feel a cock as they did so--that jackass in 1890s New York notwithstanding--then at to least brush the thing. He was A Man to the people of Earth; they didn’t know any better. And being A Man brought with it certain embodied expectations, especially where the matter of well-fitting trousers was concerned.

In some decades, with some pairs, the styles worked whether he had the cock on or not; in others, though, like the ones was wearing, the cock was a necessary accessory if he wanted his trousers to hang right. So he'd worn it today and forgotten about it, about its occasional instinct to stir when it shouldn’t and now here he was with Aziraphale in his arms (at last) and the thing had chosen now of all times to wake up.

Of course it bloody well had.

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are your eyes closed? Are you sleeping?”

“Are they?” He tested; they were. Better they stay that way. “Huh.”

“What’s the matter, then?” Aziraphale’s breath was unsettlingly close, a pinot-scented draft.

“Nothing’s," Crowley said. "I mean, nothing’s wrong. The matter. Not a thing.”

“Then why does your face look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” There was a brush on his face like leaves, the catch of bright, familiar skin. “I don’t know what like. Stunned, or something. Like the stoat you hit with your car on the way up here.”

“I didn’t hit it! It ran into the road and banged its head on my fender. My car just happened to be in its way.”

“It was lost,” Aziraphale sighed. “I told you. It got turned around and went through the wrong hedge. And you brought it back to life.”

“Well,” Crowley said, “I--”

The angel’s fingers found the tip of his chin, the side of his jaw. “It was beautiful, what you did.”

Crowley’s necessary accessory jerked. _Beautiful_ , he heard in his head, a drunken butterfly soaring. _Beautiful beautiful you._  

“It was a stoat, angel,” he stammered. “Lots of ‘em about. Part of the problem, probably. All of them chasing each other around.”

“I don’t think you know how beautiful you are.” Aziraphale’s voice was dreamy. “One of God’s loveliest creatures, my old friend. That’s what you are. I think that, you know. Every day.”

Later, Crowley would regret not having his eyes open then, would kick himself for not getting at least one glimpse at Aziraphale’s face as he said those words, as he dipped his head, as the night air slipped between the valleys of their lips, as the angel murmured again:

“Every day.”

But Crowley would take comfort later, as he did at that instant, in the bloom of Aziraphale’s mouth, a flower bourne to him, parting for him, sinking its sweetest eagerly into the red wine depths of Crowley’s own. And the sound that rose from them with their tongues touched, that stretched into the sky high above their wholly inadequate blanket, was an earthquake just as powerful as the ones God had once thrown about all the time, the foundations of the very earth shifting.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly. He nuzzled Crowley’s cheek and drew his hand down Crowley’s front, past the shaky breath in his chest to the tremble of his stomach to the heat down below, a flame that only grew bolder when the angel freed it and drew it out into the soft summer air. “How lovely you are, hmmm? Look at you.”

And so it was that Crowley and his angel spent a long, golden hour wrapped together in the grass, the lights of the city, the presence of man, far off to the east, and when it was over, when the strange, wonderful work was done, Crowley lay gasping, his trousers stained, the blanket bunched beneath his back while Aziraphale petted the cock--Crowley’s cock now, surely; now that he’d actually put the thing to good use--and chuffed softly in Crowley’s ear.

“Where are on earth did you learn how to do that, angel?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “There are these things called books. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? Some of them even have pictures.”

“And you read these books. About--this sort of thing. Just for fun.”

“Not fun, exactly. More like: just in case.”

“In case what?”

The angel’s thumb traced the head of Crowley’s cock. “You know,” Aziraphale said. “In case the right moment came along.”

If alcohol had caused Crowley’s mind to meander, the lovely electric pleasure of Aziraphale’s hand was not helping matters any. “You, ah,” he managed, getting the words out over a shiver. “Wow.”

They kissed again, more confident now, more sure of where to put tongues and how to not to use teeth and how to breathe. That was the hard bit, breathing. Technically, neither of them had to, but over the millennia it had become a regular habit and now, even in the midst of all this, it was difficult for them to break. Besides, it fit perfectly with what Crowley was feeling: light and floaty, grounded and hot, a creature of the stars and the air.

“Zippers,” the angel said after a long, lovely while.

Crowley wasn't quite ready to let go. “Hmmm?”

"Zippers. I’m adding them to my list.”

“What list?”

The angel kissed his cheek. “The list of the many varied and wonderful things that humans have come up with. Zippers deserve a spot there, I think.” He settled Crowley’s cock back from whence he’d drawn it and tugged the zipper up carefully. “I don’t think I’ve appreciated before how handy they are, have you?”

Crowley’s fingers regained some of their sense and slithered up to cup Aziraphale’s neck. “In that vein, then,” he said, “let’s add kissing there, too.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, a catch in his voice that Crowley wanted to immediately and forever collect, “I knew I liked you.”


End file.
